


Loved

by Pearly_Pornography



Series: Pearly's Preklok Fics [7]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Animal Death, Child Abuse, Homophobia, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Preklok, Self-Harm, Slurs, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9171835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Anecdotes of Murderface's heart being stepped on.





	

"Love". It was almost foreign to him, at age 8 and barely even talking to people. "Love". Like how he'd see his classmates at school be picked up by their parents, THEIR parents, peppering their little faces with affectionate, familial kisses. Asking, "how was your day?" with a soft expression, before grabbing their hands and walking out. "Love". Like how he'd get Christmas cards from his siblings, now living in Arizona, miles and miles away from him, their arms around one another's waists and smiles plastered on their faces. "Love". It was an alien concept. So he pressed it onto other things. "I love aliens!" He'd say, "I love Ren & Stimpy! I love chickens!"

His first love was his pet. A snake named Powdered Toast Man, a beautiful ball python with a great personality. William carried her everywhere he could. They'd go out for walks in the Georgia sunshine, visiting the corner stores. He'd take her to the pet shops and buy her snacks, while he chewed on cheap bubblegum and smiled the whole way home. Strangers would gawk at him, the curious would ask to pet her. They'd explore the parks together, he'd let her roam free for awhile under his watch before finally taking her home.

During the week she'd stay in her enclosure, waiting for her owner to return from school. And he'd run in, feed her a mouse and just talk with her whilst drawing in his notebooks and failing to comprehend homework. Sadly, PTM wouldn't give him the answers. Without any human friends, PTM was who William confided in, who he spoke to, who he played with, and laughed with, and shared his most intimate, emotional memories. Even in school he'd wax poetic in his writing about his dearest friend, his python who despite her name, was a woman. Powdered Toast Man, his partner in crime, and together, they'd cross the very world.

He returned home one day, finding PTM not in her enclosure. Frightened, he ran to his grandfather, who had not yet fallen near-comatose. His response?

"Ask Stella."

So he went to Stella, his grandmother. She put it simply. She was tired of having the animal in the house, and let it out. Immediately William went dashing out the front door, finding her reptilian remains still scraped across the road. Her tail and face remained, but he missed her final moments, not even having the chance to save her. Seeing him weeping on the edge of the road, his grandmother beat him across the back of the neck with a hardcover novel, telling him to get inside. He was making a scene.

William never took in another animal after that. PTM's corpse was cleared off the road and stored in a shoebox, until Stella forced William to throw it away.

-

William was never good at planning parties. But his grandpa was a good man, and nearing the ripe age of 80 without a care in the world, he felt he owed it to him. He was never CLOSE to Thunderbolt, per se, but who would come between William and a bludgeoning by his crude grandmother? None other than her husband. The old fart was like his lifeline.

Knowing his grandpa pretty well, he got him a motorcycle jacket. A thick leather one that cost him all of his allowance, plus some cash he filched from Stella's wallet while she was napping. A soft, comfy inside, and long sleeves that hung off of William's hands when he tried it on. He hoped it'd at least fit his old man, even if he wasn't doing motorcycling anymore. It'd still look pretty damn rad, and maybe people would stop looking down on his family for once.

Of course, he'd never really had a proper birthday party. (In fact, he could hardly remember when his birthday WAS. Sometime in October, his grandmother said.) Asking for help, his classmate Genevieve De Merode suggested he throw a surprise party.

"Everyone likes surprises." She put it plainly. "Even you could get it right."

He threw a wadded-up piece of paper at her head, getting the edges stuck in her curly red hair. However, her idea did ring true. At the very least, HE knew he liked surprise gifts. (Especially with how rarely he got them.) So, he carefully planned out every single bit of this surprise. And when grandpa returned home from the pool hall at 11, grabbing at his back and grunting, he skittered out of his bedroom with noisemakers and yelled, "surprise!"

Grandpa didn't say much of anything. Instead, he fell over.

The doctors said he would've had a stroke at that time regardless. William didn't do anything to bring it onward. The heart attack that occurred at the exact same time, however, may have very well been his fault. Living a life of small victories, Thunderbolt dragged himself through it, surviving by the skin of his teeth. He came out a barely-functioning vegetable.

Needless to say, William had never experienced such a beating in his life.

His grandmother probably only let him come out of it still alive for legal reasons. But he was bludgeoned into the ground by the fists and wooden tools of the old woman, barely even weighing a quarter of what she did and being wildly afraid. 

"Do you know what you've done to me?!"

William didn't answer. He did know, but he wouldn't say it. With a thick wooden spoon that Stella never actually used for making food, she knocked his four frontmost teeth clean out.

-

Normally he wasn't invited to do things with his classmates. However, a "boy's night out" wouldn't be the same without every boy in Ms. Geller's class. So it was all of them, even Jamie Harper in the wheelchair, which he didn't really expect. (How did he get up the stairs to Max's house?)

Maxie Carmichael hosted an all-boys sleepover at his house for his11th birthday. William knew everyone attending, though they weren't really friends. For the most part they just talked, and played board games, and slapped each other with pillows and rubber snakes that were found under Maxie's couch. The horror movies weren't really for him. He was an easily startled child, and around the jump-scares he'd scream like a little kid. It was at the point that he wet himself when the other boys cast him away to clean himself and fuck off. 

Which was to be expected. Wildly burning with humiliation, he hid out in Maxie's bathroom. A nice, porcelain one. Way nicer than his. With his old pants shoved away, and sitting around in his jammies, he resigned himself to lifelong embarrassment and shame when he heard a knock on the door. 

He answered, still bleary-eyed. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed Frankie Hill was on the other side - Maxie's step-brother, he believed. He was in a grade below William, but still slightly taller than him. They stared at one another for awhile.

"You need to usche it?"

"Were you crying?" 

"...Mhm." 

"Aw, c'mon. It's okay." Frankie threw his arms around William, who just shuddered, unsure how to respond. "Big bro just has anger problems. They'll forget about it in a few weeks, right?"

William stared at Frankie, feeling an emotion he hadn't felt in years. Who was the last person his heart burned for? It was PTM, wasn't it? His expression softened, as Frankie continued. "I think I know what'll make you feel better."

"Huh?"

"A kiss!"

"A k..." He thought about it for a moment. Then another. He'd never been kissed before. Grandma certainly didn't, and grandpa was never the type either. PTM was the only one who really gave him kisses, and even then, she was a snake. There was surely nothing wrong with it, and it may very well improve his mood. He decided on it. "Alright!"

Frankie pressed a small peck to his lips. His face heated up, and he giggled, giddy as he'd ever been. "C-can I do it again?"

"Well, sure."

He stood on his toes, and made it last a good, long while. His eyes closed and he clutched Frankie's hands. He felt whole. He felt complete.

He felt... like he heard the door opening.

"Frankie!" He backed up, looking towards the door. Maxie and, even worse, his stepfather, stood in the doorway, both red-faced and furious. The old man grabbed William by his collar, getting real close, so close he could taste his breath. "What the fuck did you do to my son."

"Nothing, I-I juscht--"

"Get out of my house, you dirty fucking queer! Get out!"

As quickly as it happened, it was over. William was unceremoniously thrown out the door, his backpack landing squarely on top of him and knocking the wind out of him. His back scraped against the pathway to the door, and he shuddered, hearing Maxie shout.

"Don't come back, fag!"

He could see Frankie in the door. The door closed, and neither of them said anything.

-

High school was not a kind environment to William. Especially since he couldn't, say, run off to his home and play with his snake like he used to. No friends, no real family, just his bass, switchblade, and whatever drugs he could get his hands on. That was just how things were for him.

So when a girl - a REAL GIRL - spoke to him in the halls, he nearly dropped his things. 

Elsie Jones. The name rolled off of his tongue. She had long, blonde hair, and a soft face. A perfect body, to boot. Dressed pretty averagely, and had glittering green eyes, a beautiful color, like an emerald forest. It was so stressful he felt like his heart rate was peaking, like he might possibly fall unconscious, or have a heart attack. She spoke, her eyelashes fluttering along with her words, picking up dust as they did.

"Hey, Willy."

"...M-me?"

"Yeah, dummy." She laughed a little. It was like angels, millions and millions of angels singing, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

"Yeah, wha... what isch it?"

"Well, I was thinking. Genevieve and I were gonna go do something together, but she had to call it off. I've got tonight free. Wanna do somethin'?"

"Yesch!" He responded almost immediately, throwing his hands down just for emphasis. "I definitely want to!"

"Alright. Pick you up at 6."

The rest of the day was all sunshine and rainbows. He was scolded in math class for poor grades, and didn't mind a bit. During the lunch period he was slammed over the head with a metal thermos that belonged to Jamie Harper. It left a grody bruise on his face. He didn't care, he laughed. It didn't matter, because class babe Elsie Jones was gonna take him out tonight! He felt like he was walking on thin air, and he was very serious about this. He would make this work!

He owned a suit-jacket and tie, but no slacks, so he wore his shorts and boots. He even bought flowers. He spent all his spare money on it. His grandmother laughed at him.

"Nobody would take you out, William." She said, prying at Thunderbolt's jaw to shove a spoonful of applesauce in his mouth. "Not a single damn person on this planet has even an inkling of interest in fucking you."

He gave her the finger and stormed out. He would prove them all wrong.

It was late, and the park was cold. A little bit of rainfall just to make the wait even more excruciating. He ignored it, though his hair stuck to his neck and forehead, and his clothes sunk, weighted down by the water. He waited, and he waited, and he waited. It was two hours until something, anything happened. He was kicked to the ground.

The mud stuck in his hair and got all over his button-down. He whimpered, looking up.

"You actually thought this was real? You seriously thought Elsie would ask you out?" It was a male voice. "She told me she was just gonna stand you up, but like hell I'd miss a chance to kick your sorry ass." 

It hurt. He was kicked in the sides, and of course, Maxie had worn steel-toed boots that day. (He knew it was Maxie, come on, who else would it be? And of course he brought friends with him, too. Son of a bitch.) He cried out, face nudged into the dirt by another shoe. (A sneaker. He'd become quite accustomed to this, so he could almost always tell.) Tears ran down his face. The flowers he bought flattened beneath his body.

"Pleaschh schtop."

"Lisping piece of shit." Another boot to the side. He trembled, coughing and vomiting onto the grass. The pain was horrible. He sobbed. They kicked and they hit until he stopped reacting, instead falling unconscious, and then simply left him in the grass.

"Fag."

"Queer."

"Lardass."

"Learn your fucking place."

He felt like his guts were made of stone, as minutes later, many minutes later, he pulled himself up. Another round of vomit splattered across his bare knees, rose petals sticking to his muddy clothes and body covered in bruises. He shuffled home, cold and scared and in pain, and only greeted by a smirk as Stella said she told him so. That wasn't what he wanted to hear this time. Not that it even mattered what he wanted.

That was the first time he cut.

He'd been stood up by a woman and beaten up, with nobody to love him even when he came home. He was ugly and pathetic, so much so that he was subject to prank dates. The marks on his arms spewed forth bright red, and he sobbed, as loud as he could. Nobody heard him. God didn't hear him.

He passed out that night covered in his own blood and tears. He still went to school the next day, but Elsie Jones didn't ask what was wrong.

-

William's hand stuck out into the road. After a long, long time of waiting, he was picked up by a truck driver. A thick old man with a long beard and heavy brows.

"Where you goin', kid."

"Wherever you are, I guessch."

The man invited him in, and he sat there for awhile. Chilling in silence, playing with his GBC and kicking some sweet ass at Mario and the 6 Golden Coins. For awhile it was quiet, until they pulled over in a gas station. He blinked, looking up from his game.

"Alright, kid." The man stared at him. "I'm expectin' payment. And I can tell what kind of person you are."

William blinked for a moment. And then the realization hit him.

"Fine."

This wasn't the first time he'd sucked cock for a drive. How else had he been travelling, after all? Like most of them, this one was veiny and gross, too. He swallowed, muttering a quick prayer before going down. Sick, gross, disgusting, and it smelled bad, and no matter how many times he did this it'd still be scary and disgusting.

"Ooh, you've definitely done this before."

He whimpered, lowering further. He couldn't fit it all in, but the guy didn't mind pulling him down. He felt sick.

He could taste the release on his lips. "Keep it down."

"Mnnh..." He made a disgusting bubbling sound, cum clearly stuck to his teeth as he swallowed. "...Can- can I schtay on?"

"I've had better, but sure. You put in the effort." He turned the keys in his truck once more, allowing William to flop back into the seat and wipe his mouth. He needed a pool full of holy water to absolve himself from this shit. "I'll drop you off after we enter Florida."

"Florida." He repeated. "Alright."

-

He couldn't reach deep enough. His fingers were too stubby and fat. He whined, sinking further into his blankets, letting out a hoarse sob.

Skwisgaar could probably reach deeper.

His legs trembled as, with the finesse of any other teenager, he groped at his dick. That Swedish motherfucker. With his long blonde hair and soft lips, and a sultry voice, and perfectly sculpted body. Like a goddamn angel. And Murderface was just gangly and awkward and his personality wasn't even big enough to fill his overgrown chubby body. He felt like cheap shit compared to the guy. The cheapest of cheap shit.

His fingers slipped across the (frankly, unimpressive) length of his penis, fluttering over the veins, as his other hand was occupied just trying to get the right positioning on the other end. It wasn't enough, he just wanted the real thing, dammit!

He whined, staring at the photograph on his pillow. There he was, with a half-smirk on his face, blonde hair thrown over his shoulders and bright eyes glittering, he swore his eyes glittered. He may or may not have stolen it from a scrapbook that Skwisgaar was collecting... full of pictures of himself. (Which he thought was totally weird, but whatever.) His palms were all gross and sweaty and he felt like some kind of dirty pervert. Sick. Gross. Weird.

The door flew open.

And then there was an awkward silence.

"William, for fuck's sakes." Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lock the fucking door. And- where the hell did you get a printed photo of Skwisgaar?"

"I schtole it! Get outta here!" He threw a pillow at Magnus' head, prompting him to leave quietly. "You fucking voyeur, schtarin' at me jackin' off! Hell with you!"

"To a picture of Skwisgaar?"

"Get outta here, man!"

-

His fingers wrapped around a bottle, taking a long, thoughtful drink. The bruise on his jaw was painful, but not as painful as the bruise on his feelings. (If you can even GET those.) Magnus was beside him, slumped over, wildly drunk. That was how he ended most nights, which Murderface didn't really mind. It was just another part of his everyday life.

He was happy.

Yeah.

"'m sorry." He slurred through a mouthful of liquor. "I didn't mean it."

Really all he did was push Murderface into a table. It was nothing any worse than their sexual romps through the night with Magnus' hands around Murderface's throat, it was moreso that he swore and yelled and made him just feel really bad about himself.

"I forgive you. Whatever."

"I'm gonna... buy you somethin'."

"You don't have to."

"No, no no, man, I shouldn't have said what I... said."

"I schaid I forgive you already! Jeesch!"

"No, fuck off, I'm gonna get you somethin' real nice." He kissed Murderface on the temple, making his face go red. His face broke into a wild grin, because dammit, that guy knew how to put him in a good mood no matter what the circumstances. "You want anythin'? A boy's night out, maybe? I could take you barhopping, maybe out to a cheap show, get some ice cream, maybe take you back to my bedroom and give you somethin' else..."

"I think I juscht wanna go to bed."

"No, come on, let's go out."

"You're drunk. We can do schtuff tomorrow."

"C'mon."

"I schaid tomorrow, we're off work tomorrow, isch perfect, it all worksch out." 

"Alright, alright."

The two of them slunk off to bed, tipsy and frazzled. Magnus enveloped Murderface's whole body in his own, and he felt warm, and safe. Where, oh where, could anyone get the fucking idea that this guy was at all a danger to him?

-

"You should sign Murderface's cast."

"Ja, we's alls done it." Skwisgaar nudged Toki, gesturing towards the bandages. "It ams likes iniksheeations."

Murderface's busted legs were already covered in signatures. A few from fans. One reading, 'Nathan ws here", and another near it. "nathan is gay". A quick sketch of a turtle, and then "pickles the drummer". Then on the other, more blank leg, a scripted signature. "Skwisgaar Skwigelf". Toki stuck the tip of the marker in his mouth, in deep thought, staring at the wide array of fan signatures on his casts.

"Why you legs is brokens anyhows, Moidaface?"

"...None of your buschinessch."

Toki frowned. He seemed to have already caught on, which bothered Murderface more than anything. "Don't schign it, I'm leaving."

"No, no no no. Wait, I gots it."

He quickly scrawled on the bandages. It was upside down, and Murderface couldn't even read it. "It says, 'stays safe, loves, Tokis'. Dat's all I ams wants to says. Sorries, my handwritings amn'ts very goods, I didn't goes to schools."

"'Love'?"

"Yeah, likes... I loves you! My band brothers!"

"...Don't schay that shit to me."

He hobbled away with a scowl on his face.

'Love'. An abnormal fantasy for depressed people. 'Love'. Something William Murderface didn't believe in, something fake and fictional and stupid. 'Love'. A waste of time, hardly better than wishing for unicorns to exist, really. Because he had his opportunities. He tried and he tried and he tried again. Every single time it ended in pain, and hate. 'Love'. Searching for it was asinine, and waiting for it to come was just shaving years off of his life. He would forever be hollow. Empty. Loveless.

'Loved'. Murderface just never was.


End file.
